Etched in Stone

 

Etched in Stone

Two years ago, I was taken a bit by surprise in a cemetery in Kaukauna, WI.  The smallish city was where my mother was born and raised.   I knew the cemetery because when I was young we used to visit my maternal grandmother every other Sunday.  And, especially during the summer months, we would occasionally visit the church cemetery on the way home; it’s where my maternal grandfather was buried.  Sometimes my mother planted flowers, sometimes she pulled up any weeds and any long grass that was covering up grandfather’s name, Fred LaBorde, that was etched at the very bottom of the simple gray stone.

My grandmother passed away when I was a teen.  She was in a nursing home for the last several years of her life suffering from dementia.  My mother refused to let me visit with her; “You don’t want to see Grandma like that.”  Maybe she was right, but for me it was kind of like she died years before she died.  I really didn’t know her well.

Over the last dozen years or so, Michelle and I have occasionally stopped there, to say a prayer and tidy things up.  All my aunts and uncles on my mother’s side are gone now and I don’t know if any of my cousins visit or not.  I feel like somebody should, so I do.  Two years ago, a tornado  hit the cemetery and according to the news report, a lot of trees were down.  A couple of days later we drove down just to make sure everything was OK.

I was relieved when I found their headstone intact and unharmed.  I remembered that my maternal great-grandmother was also buried there somewhere.  I went searching.  After walking up and down the rows as systematically as I could, I came across the same kind of headstone with the name “Mc Keown”.  The only thing I know for sure about my great-grandmother is that she was from Ireland.  According to the family stone, my mother’s Aunt Josephine was also buried here.  My mother lived with this aunt after high school while she attended Bellin School of Nursing. 

As I headed back toward the car I stopped in my tracks.  There, on a headstone, the name “Wagnitz” was prominently etched into the brown granite.  It was a bit startling.  I had no idea that anyone from my paternal family was buried here.  I drew nearer.  The smaller names, again along the bottom, were of an aunt and uncle that I heard my father talk about.  I never remember him ever going down to visit these graves.  Maybe he did drift away for a few minutes and I just didn’t notice, but I don’t really think so. He certainly never pointed it out to me.  

An old phase that is used when the speaker wants to ensure the listener that no final decision has yet been made is, “Well, it’s not etched in stone.”   Of course, the opposite is also true in that when something is etched in stone, it is final; there’s no going back.  I think the thing that startled me most, was suddenly seeing my family name on that headstone.  It gave me pause.   

Michelle and I have been blessed to have 11 grandchildren.  Two of the girls live in Colorado, but the rest live within a half-hour drive of so, so we see them fairly often.  We’ve been able to celebrate many a Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, and birthday parties through the years.  We’ve attended as many of the sports events, concerts, plays, and school programs as we could.  All the teens and young adults have smart phones.  They all “post” their prayer intentions on Grandma’s prayer chain each week – that usually helps us stay in touch with how things are going for them. 

I was not as fortunate as a youngster.  My paternal grandmother passed away two years before I was even born.  My paternal grandfather died when I was just two-years old.  I remember that he had a talking parrot named Willie.  My maternal grandfather passed away when I was four-years-old.  I have one memory of him.  He and my grandmother visited at Christmas time.  He sat in my mother’s green chair in the living-room.  He had taken off his winter coat, but his corduroy hat with the visor and the ear flaps was still on his head.  I remember he smiled at me and pulled me up into his lap.  For all of my grade school years I wore a hat like that, because I remember my grandfather wearing one like it and holding me in his lap.

I am blessed to be able to share so many memories with my own grandchildren.  I am blessed to have been able to write this blog for the last three years, because if my grandchildren want to know what was on my heart, they have access to these posts. 

I do know for certain that when my name, and both my dates are etched in stone, the one thing my family can know that won’t be final, is my love for each of them.  I know my love for them will live on; not just on the memories they have of me, but in my heart.  By God’s grace I will love them perfectly, because I will be living on in the perfect love of God. 

His Peace <><

Deacon Dan